The Shame of Motley: being the memoir of certain transactions in the life of Lazzaro Biancomonte, of Biancomonte, sometime fool of the court of Pesaro eBook

This secrecy and Ramiro’s display of anger at
seeing a hint of it betrayed by Lampugnani struck
me, not unnaturally, as suspicious. What were
these hidden communications that passed between Vitellozzo
Vitelli and the Governor of Cesena? It was a
matter of which I could not pretend to offer a solution,
but, nevertheless, it was one, I thought, that promised
to repay investigation.

Ramiro grew impatient, and my reflections suffered
interruption by his rough command that I should hasten.
One of the men-at-arms helped me to truss my points,
and when that was done I stepped forward—­Boccadoro
the Fool once more.

CHAPTER XVII

THE SENESCHAL

For an hour or so that night I played the Fool for
Messer Ramiro’s entertainment in a manner which
did high justice to the fame that at Pesaro I had
earned for the name of Boccadoro.

Beginning with quip and jest and paradox, aimed now
at him, now at the officer who had remained to keep
him company in his cups, now at the servants who ministered
to him, now at the guards standing at attention, I
passed on later to play the part of narrator, and I
delighted his foul and prurient mind with the story
of Andreuccio da Perugia and another of the more licentious
tales of Messer Giovanni Boccacci. I crimson
now with shame at the manner in which I set myself
to pander to his mood that with my wit I might defend
my life and limbs, and preserve them for the service
of my Holy Flower of the Quince in the hour of her
need.

One man alone of all those present did I spare my
banter. This was the old seneschal, Miriani.
He stood at his post by the buffet, and ever and
anon he would come forward to replenish Messer Ramiro’s
cup in obedience to the monsters imperious orders.

What fortitude was it, I wondered, that kept the old
man outwardly so calm? His face was as the face
of one who is dead, its features set and rigid, its
colour ashen. But his step was tolerably firm,
and his hand seemed to have lost the trembling that
had assailed it under the first shock of the horror
he had witnessed.

As I watched him furtively I thought that were I Ramiro
I should beware of him. That frozen calm argued
to me some terrible labour of the mind beneath that
livid mask. But the Governor of Cesena appeared
insensible, or else he was contemptuous of danger
from that quarter. It may even have delighted
his outrageous nature to behold a man whose son he
had done to death with such brutality continue obedient
and submissive to his will, for it may have flattered
his vanity by the concession that bearing seemed to
make to his grim power.

An hour went by, my second tale was done, and I was
now entrancing Messer Ramiro with some impromptu verses
upon the divorce of Giovanni Sforza, a theme set me
by himself, when I was interrupted by the arrival of
a soldier, who entered unannounced.